


GAS! GAS! GAS!

by RocksCanFly



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Canon Temporary Character Death, Canon-Typical Violence, Companionable Snark, Demo Is A Gorgeous Sweetheart, Flirting With Dying Men Is An Australian Pasttime, Gen, M/M, corpse kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-05
Updated: 2015-11-05
Packaged: 2018-04-30 04:16:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5149934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RocksCanFly/pseuds/RocksCanFly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grayman commits an act even Medic would call unethical, and the mercs find themselves holed up in their base waiting for the danger to pass.</p><p>BLU Sniper stumbles upon an intruder and ends up having a friendly chat with a dying man. </p><p>or</p><p>In Which Grayman Continues To Be Evil, Sniper Continues To Be A Snarker With A Heart Of Rusty Iron, and Demoman Is Too Sweet, To Pure For The World</p>
            </blockquote>





	GAS! GAS! GAS!

**Author's Note:**

> Some unbeta'd crap I wrote a year ago and chose to post out of a fit of artistic frustration (yay, writer's block!)

You’d known that Grayman was a nasty, heartless little monster.

But even with that knowledge, even when every other day is spent fighting those damn clankers with RED instead of against RED, you never could have seen it coming.

You’re older than some of the other blokes here- your da, he lived through the First World War. He didn’t speak of it often, but when he did the stories sent chills up your spine when you were still a little ankle-biter.

You've known to fear gas since you were a tyke. Even the Nazi's didn't use it, back in the war, and they were as close to evil as anyone's ever gotten.

You're wandering the halls of Teufort base restlessly, checking that all the doors and windows are shut, that the gas is sealed outside- when you find him.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” a voice says weakly to your side. Startled, you draw your razorback and pivot.

The RED Demoman is slumped up against the wall just down the hall from you. His legs are sprawled out haphazardly in front of him and he’s bleeding sluggishly from a shallow cut on one arm. He gives a wet, hacking cough that seems to shake his bones. The man must’ve come through the gas to get here.

“And what’re you doing all the way back here on your lonesome, then?” You approach him cautiously, training your SMG between his eyes.

“Was tryin’ to get to Jane, wasn’t I?” The man quips, not budging from his spot. “The daft bastard couldn’t be bothered to radio me with whether he was dead or nae’ after the gas hit,” he rasped. “I could na’ just sit in me damn base and wonder.”

“So you and Solly, you really are poofs together then?” You question, gesturing vaguely at him with your gun. The man winces at the slur, fixing you with his one groggy eye.

“Nae, you bloody Australian bastard. Jane’s a wee bit of a daft one an’ he don’t always respect a man’s personal boundaries well- But he’s into the lassies, that much I ken,” he replied gruffly. “An’ there ain’t no call to go using slurs, ye fuckin’ kangaroo-humping _camper_.”

You shift from one foot to another, debating _. Ah, to hell with it_ , you think. Wasn’t as if anyone would believe the drunk if he ratted on you, let alone care. Heavy and the Doc get along okay, and if Scout mouths off you can always throw a jar of Jarate at the little bugger.

“I like to think of it as a sort of defensive strategy,” you say with what you think is a pretty good casual tone. “People can’t use a word against you if you make it your own, right?”

That shocks a little awareness into that golden eye. Demoman starts, looking up at you skeptically. “That so, then?” he mumbled lowly, defensive posture loosening. “Well, don’t that beat all. All we need is Frenchy to bumble _his_ way out o’ the closet and we’ll never hear the end of it from those bloody _Americans_ —“ he gets cut off by a wracking cough.

“I’m no _European_ , mate,” you scoff in offense as you drop the SMG to your side. If the dumb wanker really did bumble his way through the gas to get here it isn’t likely he’s going to be much of a threat for a while. “You need some water?”

“I’ll pass,” he rasps, bloodied hand wiping red-flecked foam from his mouth. His lips smear with the red, drawing your gaze. You’ve never really looked at your own Demoman’s lips before- they’re full and soft-looking in a way you’ve never noticed. For a brief, mad moment you wonder what they’d feel like.

 _Feh_ , you scoff at yourself. Just because the other man is a dandy doesn’t mean you’ve any cause to crack onto him like that. Clankers or no, the man is a target you get paid to kill- and you aren’t _that_ desperate.

“How ‘bout a mercy kill?” you ask gruffly, chastising yourself.

He laughs, throwing his head back against the wall. Unwillingly, your eyes are drawn to the smooth, oddly delicate lines of his throat, the strong hard lines of his jaw. Soon his raucous laughter turns to more hacking, wet coughs.

“Nae,” he manages eventually. “Re-spawn’s still down on my base- ‘Lest ye never want to see this handsome mug in yer scope again, I’d appreciate you holding back on the mercy there, boy’o. I’m unarmed, if that appeals to any sense of honor you’ve got.”

“Not really,” you answer honestly. “But since I’m not getting paid to kill you right now, I don’t see the point in wasting bullets.”

That got another wet chuckle out of him. “Thank God for skinflint snipers,” he gasps before doubling over. He starts retching again, hacking and coughing until a small, red lump flies out his throat and onto the floor with a _splat_. You’re no medical professional, but you’ve seen your share of dead bodies by now and you’re pretty sure it’s a hunk of his _lung_.

He’s abandoned tending the wound on his arm to focus on steadying himself against the wall- a difficult task seeing as he’s starting swaying the way your Demo does after his fifth bottle of Scrumpy.

“Seems you won’t be needing that mercy kill after all,” you say softly. Something in you is tempted to help him- his shoulders tremble as he scrunches further into himself, legs curling up and in protectively as he continues to cough and wheeze. The back of his neck is open and vulnerable to you- a target, in other circumstances.

Sighing, you get down to kneel next to him, press one hand to his shuddering back like your mum used to for you when you were sick as a kid.

“I can go get Soldier for ya, if you like,” you say lowly. It’s partially an offer of help, partially a way to give yourself a graceful escape from this scene, from the confusing impulses it’s bringing up in you.

“Don’t,” he manages after a rough hack. “Engie was really just a wee bit off from fixing the re-spawn when I left. I’ve got nae illusions about how long I’ve got- in five minutes I’ll either be dead or enjoyin’ a fresh set o’ lungs. Goin’ ta bother Jane’d be pointless now either way. Just tell me- is he okay? Did all ye team make it through?”

“Our Heavy was stuck out there for a bit longer than the rest of us- Ruskie bastard dragged his gun with him instead of dropping it like a sensible bloke. But Medic got right on him once he got through the door, so he’s doing fine, I reckon.”

“An’ Jane?”

“If his lungs got liquefied the way yours did, mate, you couldn’t tell with how he was carrying on about the Nazi-Commie-Limey cowards who ‘sent a cloud to do their job’.”

That startles another weak chuckle from the man. You can’t help but grin a little at the delight the RED Demo seems to take in your team’s Soldier- it ain’t a cruel delight, not like what the whole team thought it must be when you all found out about the pair’s strange friendship. The man doesn’t seem to be laughin’ at Solly- it’s more like he’s laughing at the sheer wonder, the audacious boldness of such a man. Not in mocking jest, but in pure appreciation.

It’s an odd relationship, to be sure, you think to yourself. Which makes the warm glow that fills you all the more strange and troubling- you’ve no deep love for Soldier, not any more than you have for the rest of the BLU Team. But the warmth in the Demoman’s tone, the sheer madness of his decision to fight here through the gas, all for the sake of checking on his friend-

It makes something ache in you that you weren’t aware of. There’s a hollow emptiness to the ache, the bitter edge of loneliness. That part--

\--that part’s nothing _new_. But in that ache there’s something hard and sharp that tastes of gunmetal and clean water.

It tastes like _hope_ , which is something you’ve not had cause to feel in a while.

And its coming from this dying, bleeding drunk bugger shaking and coughing on the ground in front of you, and that scares you so much you don’t have _words_.

“That’s jus’ like him, that is,” Demoman manages weakly, voice nothing more than a soft rasp. “Now, you troublesome beanstalk- me thinks my time is coming up right quick, lad. I won’t be moving from here one way or another, so ‘lest ye want a front row show to the slowest, most boring death this be’damned world has ever seen- why don’t ye run off an’ let nature have ‘er way, aye?”

You consider the option- it’s not like the bloke’s going anywhere, not with lungs that must be half-way to soup by now with the way he’s been coughing. And it _would_ give you that out you were looking for- _hell_ , you were gonna leave him here to fetch Soldier not _four minutes ago_.

So you can’t comprehend, not for the _life_ of you, what makes you plop down on the wall beside him instead. Shifting awkwardly to avoid the pool of blood and spittle, you quail a bit under his single raised brow. ‘ _And just what in the merry hell do you think you’re doin’, then?’_

“Figure I’ll see ya on ya way,” you reply gruffly to the unasked question.

“Aw, come off it,” he jokes, as cheerful and irreverent in the face of death as he is in the face of everything. “Ye just want to get one more look at this fine mug before it goes off to who-knows-where.” He half-heartedly gestures at his face with one hand, the other still supporting him against the wall. He shudders once he’s done speaking, eyes slipping shut and head slumping to the side.

He doesn’t see your blush, thank any useless god who’s listening. You listen hard for his shallow breathing and resist the urge to thank them for that, too.

Eventually, after a few more close minutes of comfortable silence marred only by the occasional wracking cough, the breathing stops.

You sit there, debating for a minute before you give in. Gods know you’re a bit of a loner, yes, but you can’t for the sake of beer and kangaroo jerky say what it is that makes you reach over to the dead man’s face, tilt it towards you.

His mouth is left open in a soft, vulnerable ‘o’. In a state that could be called trancelike, you lean in and press your lips to the corpse’s.

They’re a soft as they seemed, but far too cold.

One stomach turning hour later, when the gas has cleared and the fight resumes for the day, you catch those lips smiling up at you through your scope.

You’re so shocked with relief and inexplicable happiness that you hardly mind at all when their Spook slips a knife between your ribs.


End file.
